


Lima Syndrome

by guestwho



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mostly Mute Sam, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guestwho/pseuds/guestwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was late to rescue Sam during the fire that killed their mother, making Sam grow up with permanent scars on his face from a window that burst in the nursery. The social rejection he experienced from his scars was so fatal he stopped talking - and became so erratic John had to keep him locked in the attic upstairs. Dean always blamed himself for Sam, and does anything he can to make his brother happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lima Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> This a canon-divergent fic. It takes place in season 1, and although yellow-eyes exists, he isn't featured, as well as most of the Winchester hunting life. There's brief Dean/Cassie, but that's it. Although consent is fully given, I still tagged just in case. I wrote this up on a weekend while I was taking a short break from life, so if there are any typos, I do apologize and please feel free to point them out, I'll correct them as quickly as I can. 
> 
> **Also for those still wondering about the Hozyain sequel, I am close to the end of it, it turned out to be thirty pages longer than I anticipated (ha ha ha??). I apologize so much for the wait! But I hope this helps. Enjoy!

KANSAS - 1983.

Dean has a four-year-old’s dream of Hell.

“Get your brother and take him outside,” John’s hands belonged to a wraith as he dug them into Dean’s tiny shoulders. “Now, Dean. Go!”

His heart kicked up into his throat. He races and feels like he’s running through space and time. The stench of charred baby blankets and tinkling of his baby brother’s nursery chimes play like after-thoughts under the leviathan roar of flames. His bare feet tangle in messy, crispy rugs as soon as he steps through the threshold, and the floor hits his face. He’s hyperventilating in choked air. Knees stand up like thin beams to a crumbling cathedral, palms shaking, eyes stinging red.

Sammy’s crib is nestled by the window, and he’s crying. Dean can hear his newborn vocal chords tearing under the laughter of fire. His whole body jerks toward the sound like it was connected to him; some holy, spiritual limb. He presses his fingers to the crib bars and shakes, yanking them down. Sammy’s eyes are shiny, wrinkled, terrified globes of hazel.

Blood drops on his forehead.

Dean slowly looks up, and sees God burning on the ceiling.

His nightmare begins with the shriek of the window bursting into Sammy’s crib - like the twist of a train veering off the tracks. The glass sprays like lightning across his chest and jaw, but the monstrous tongue of fire that laps through the panes is what sends him flying to the floor. His back touches down as gently as a penny at the bottom of a black well as he comes face to face with his mother - eyes wide without lids. Eyes wide without lids.

Sammy wails like a banshee. Dean stumbles on jellied legs to scoop him out of his crib, and only manages two steps before the whole thing lights up like a satanic stove. His own scream is filled with glass shards, like needles in his throat, but when Sammy lets out a final dying agony it’s all Dean can hear.

*

Their house was on the news the next day.

The police couldn’t find their mother’s remains, and after hearing their testaments, said they must’ve been “still in shock”. That didn’t change John’s mind at all.

When they saw Sammy, they apologized.

*

Their first week of high school together was a doozy. Dean had to be enrolled as a senior taking junior and sophomore courses, and Sam rolled in as a freshmen with AP classes. He doesn’t take any language classes - Dean explains why to the principal, and they swap language for computer science instead, no questions asked.

John said they wouldn’t be there very long - just until he finished this one case about a house fire in Milwaukee. He needed them to “assimilate” in order to get in good with the suburbanite mothers and fathers.

Dean was perfect. He worked like a charm. His personality filled up that campus like a bath bomb in a blande tub. And Dean loved it. He had friends. He had chick friends, he had guy friends - even his teachers loved him, despite his downfalls. Dean wouldn’t forget how it felt to have two whole weeks of absolute normalcy; like one black, perfectly paved lane in a ground-up, torn-up, hole-filled highway.

It hit him two weeks into the semester that adding Sam might work against John’s plan.

Sam shuffled into the archway of the long, teeming corridor with backstraps clenched so tightly into his hands his knuckles were pressed bone-white. His backpack was heavy - it was his first time at a real school. He didn’t know what not to pack. The weight bore into his paralyzed muscles as the endless throngs of teenagers yawned before him. With Dean gone to a different hall on campus for his math class, Sam stood alone. Blood pounded.

He walked staring down at his map, a wrinkled thing that shook in his hand, bits torn from how he’d wrenched it out from his backpack. The air felt hot as a steamer around him as he passed other students - only glancing up to check hallway signs.

Chemistry. AP Chemistry.

A book bag flies into his face like a hard smack that sends his jaw reeling. Sharp, lacerating pain shrieks in his cheek, and his back collides with the wall.

“Oh my god - I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see you there,” This loud, panicked girl-voice comes at him in a disembodied cloud nearly swallowed by how hard his heart frogs inside of him. He looks up at the perpatrator - a tall, thin fourteen-year-old like himself, with big brown eyes speckled with green, like himself, and a beautiful, clear-skinned, perfect face.

Her eyes become impossibly larger when he looks at her. Her lower lip starts trembling, like she’s about to cry, but her pupils are frozen. Her books are scattered all across the linoleum, but she doesn’t move to retrieve them.

“You’re -” She swallows - thick, lumpy. “You’re bleeding.”

Sam’s heart flops like a fish. Reality splashes like ice water down his back and he reaches a sleeve up to dab at his cheek. It comes back soaked. He didn’t pack his towelettes or bandages - he didn’t think he’d - he didn’t.

She dives down and starts swiping up her books with hands like palsy. In a knee-jerk reaction, Sam dips down at the same time.

“No!” She stops him too-sharply, eyes darting all around him like his face was the ark of the covenant. “It’s okay - I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

Sam watches her, stopped in time as she crowds her arms with books and sneaker-squeaks down the hall without a second glance back.There’s one book still on the floor - near the wall, right beside his foot.

Fahrenheit 451.

*

Dean had to go to every single one of Sam’s teachers individually and tell them not to bother calling on him in class - he wouldn’t answer. He should’ve done it on the first day, but it didn’t really end up mattering. None of his teachers ever called on him anyways - even though he knew every answer better than anyone else.

Being in class felt like sitting in a bumper cart ring. Except, for Sam, it was more like a bumper cart ring where he remained parked in a corner watching everyone else bump each other. It felt hot. Nerve-wracking. He kept his pencil clenched in his hand. It felt as though tiny pins were pricking at his veins, tiny worries picking at his brain about whether or not someone would try to bump him. He didn’t know if he was ready to be bumped yet. He didn’t know how to bump back.

It’s the third day of the first week that he’s in AP Chemistry and his teacher - Mr. Reichenberg - orders them to group into pairs.

Sam works better alone anyways.

*

It’s the third day of the second week that he’s in AP Chemistry and his classmate, Cameron Reid, blows a spit-ball onto his notebook. It lands square in the center of a complicated three-dimensional hemoglobin he’s in the middle of sketching. He touches it with his pencil like it was a dead thing, then meets Cameron’s eyes across the room. He’s sitting between two other boys - Nolan and Ryan Patel, brothers. They’re snickering together, but when they find Sam’s gaze, they go silent and just stare.

Sam finds a new spot outside to eat at during lunch instead of in the cafeteria that day. There he finds Dean, swallowed by a healthy throng of seniors sitting on top of tables and in trees as they laughed and swapped stories.

When Dean sees him, he looks away, and later that night apologizes with soft-spoken midnight words.

*

It doesn’t stop there though. Before Sam knows it, he’s getting spit-balls shot at him in Calculus, English, Macroeconomics, History, Computer class. After the first few times, people stopped snickering, and he couldn’t understand why they kept on doing it. By the fifth time he’d looked up from his sketches though and met the eyes of whoever had done it, he understood why, and he stopped looking up from that moment on. It didn’t mean that kids stopped doing it. They didn’t. But, rather optimistically, Sam hoped they’d stop once they realized he wasn’t going to look up - and let them look back.

*

By the fourth day, he was ready to wear a bag on his head if it meant the spit-balls and the eyeballs would stop.

Every hallway felt like a choke-hold. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every spit-ball felt like a finger poking at him, prodding at him like he was a shockingly realistic wax figure. He was melting.

He’s stepping out of a bathroom stall in the boy’s room when he finds Cameron, Nolan and Ryan perched at the sinks. His fingernails dig crescents into his backpack straps.

“How’d you get that face, Sam?” Is all Cameron says - and it hurts worse than a punch to the gut. His heart floods with adrenaline as they stare at him in silent, patient awe. Sam doesn’t move - just breathes so hard his nostrils flare, pupils darting from each smooth, perfect face in front of him like a cornered rabbit. Smooth, perfect face.

“It’s okay dude, you can tell us. No one else is in here.” Cameron goes on when he doesn’t reply, tone tinged with a trace of pity that can’t quite compensate for the tight, frozen look in their eyes. Sam doesn’t know why they’re in here asking this question if they clearly don’t want to be.

Sam wants to explain the answer to them. He wants to explain the long, winding freak-story Dean gets so uncomfortable about explaining to him, about fire and mom.

But he knows better than that. He was born this way.

“C’mon, dude. We just wanna know.”

Sam’s throat clicks against the lump clogging it. Eyes sting.

Realization dawns on Cameron’s face like disappointment when it becomes apparent Sam won’t speak. He nods at Nolan and Ryan and they shuffle out the door. The brothers move quickly, and once they peel out of the way, Sam’s left with nothing but the sink reflection to stare at.

He steps into the hall moments later and spots Cameron and the brothers talking to some jocks by the lockers. He doesn’t stare. He just grabs his books and passes as softly as he can to get to Computer Science.

“Nah man, guy wouldn’t say a word. You win.” Cameron’s voice touches his ears as he walks by. The jock laughs.

“I fucking called it, dude! Guy’s a mute. Straight up Leatherface. Now give me my money, bitch.”

Sam pauses. In computer class, he googles Leatherface.

*

It’s the fifth day, and he’s sitting at his usual spot in the yard under the shade of a tall oak, when he sees the face of the girl who’d socked him with her book bag on Day One. She’s flipping her long brunette locks away from her face and grinning with other girls across the yard - not far from where Dean is hanging out with his usual crew. Not looking at Sam, like he usually does.

Sam halts his sketch of the golden ratio as she steps away from her friends to disappear towards the water fountain. She pulls her long hair back so she can dip down for a long swill.

Sam digs into his backpack until he can find Fahrenheit 451, and hesitates with it in his hands. She’s wiping her pretty pink lips, straightening out her denim skirt. He gets up quickly, before he can change his mind, and approaches.

When she turns around and sees him, a tiny gasp bursts out. She becomes ramrod straight.

“Hi,” Comes out of a tight smile. Her lower lip is wobbly. Sam swallows - she’s so pretty up close.

Dean glances over at Sam. He spots the girl, and tenses.

“Excuse me,” She says, daintily. Sam doesn’t know why, but then she nods behind him and he realizes he’s blocking her way. Heat stings his cheeks. He’s gotta make this quick - itching to go back to his tree - so he steps closer to give her the book.

She stumbles back so fast it’s like Sam had a gun in his head. “What do you want?”  

Sam holds out the book. She looks at it with a furrowed brow. It’s only now that Sam realizes she’s panting. Her chest pops like a frog.

“It’s okay, thanks. You can have it.” She eventually says. “Keep it. I don’t care.”

Sam gets nervous. He doesn’t want this book, but he’s not rude either. He swallows - tries to clear the lump in his throat. Tries to dredge up a thank you.

Dean’s heart starts thudding.

“Just - keep it, please. It’s okay.” She begs.

“What’s going on Arianna?” A male voice appears behind him. Sam turns around and it’s Cameron - with Nolan and Ryan. His whole body zings. Arianna looks more than relieved to see them.

“Nothing,” She says, mercifully. Cameron doesn’t look convinced. He gives Sam a survey.

“What’s up, Sam?” Comes, after a long second. “What’re you doing here?”

Sam’s heart pounds in his throat like a grenade. He should’ve left the book in her locker. Or at the library. He should’ve never tried to talk to her.

“You - uh,” Cameron steps into Sam’s space. “You bothering my girlfriend, Sam?

“Cam, leave him alone.” Arianna tries. Cameron stares right into Sam’s marbled gaze with a taut jaw. His nostrils are flared, cheekbones jutting, lips tight. Skin smooth.

“I asked you a question, leatherface.” He whispers.

A fresh coat of pain hits Sam’s eyes. He jerks around Cameron, aiming to escape, but Cameron latches onto his arm with an iron fist and throws him against the wall. His skull knocks against brick.

“Damn it, Sam.” Dean hisses, and hops off the bench he’s on.

“Cam, stop!” Arianna yells.

“Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend, you freak,” Cameron hisses.

It all happens in seconds. Dean watches with belated terror as Sam’s expression changes - like a thousand cold, tiny metal locks slotting into place - and Cameron Reid’s back hits the pavement with a hard snap. Nolan and Ryan lunge to tear Sam off of him, and when a deep, mangled scream lashes out it grabs the attention of the whole yard. Nolan and Ryan scramble away. Dean runs to the sound.

Cameron Reid was in the hospital for a week. Sam was pulled out from school immediately.

*

When Sam was sixteen years old, and more than able to apply for a job, it took him months to find one. It was a job folding newspapers in the back of a print shop. No customers to greet. No phones to answer. No floors to walk about and sweep.

He lasted there for about a month. It was more time than his boss spent in the emergency ward.

Dean didn’t ask Sam why. They weren’t going to stay in that town very long anyways.

But it got worse.

*

Sam’s fist left bloody prints all across Pittsburg, Anywhere. Every Pittsburg.

It got to the point where one morning, somewhere in Idaho, Dean saw an ad in the classifieds looking for help managing a warehouse. It was a night shift, which was perfect for Sam, since he was always busy during the daytime with his homeschooling. He hadn’t had a job in a while - which wasn’t right for a seventeen year old. Then again, nothing was right for Sam.  

“Dad,” Dean held the paper up. John barely glanced at it - he was writing profusely in his notebook. But when Dean slides it into his writing space, he has no choice. He looks up at Dean with a set brow.

“It’s time we make some changes here, Dean.” He says, low and slow. “With your brother.”

*

Dean never stopped having his four-year-old dream of hell. He was reminded of it every day, when he brought Sam his breakfast. His lunch. His dinner. When he was checking up on him in the middle of the night. When he was checking Sam’s locks.

It was easier during the work hours, when Dean was away with John on a case. He could forget about Sam for a little bit. But Sam was always there when he came back to wherever they were staying. Always there with his face. Always there with his silence.

Between him and John, Dean didn’t have time for anything else. It was a rare day that he’d even have time to hustle pool at the bar for spending money later. The most interaction Dean ever got was with his hand.

Then, one day, he’s twenty-four chasing a fire in Oregon, and he finds Cassie.

*

The diner is called Santino’s, and his breakfast is called Two Eggs and Silence. John sits across from him with his notebook and a trail guide and jots down coordinates.They’ve been getting real close, is what John keeps telling him these days.

“A lot of hippies around here, huh?” Dean murmurs, surveying the joint. There was nothing but neck tattoos and dreads for miles. He looks at John.

He’s scribbling.

Dean decides to pick up the paper for a read. Apparently, Wyoming just closed it’s primary for this year’s election. Dean reads the names of the candidates, checks the GOP. Wonders what’s the real difference between a Republican, a Democrat, and an Independent anyways.

“You hear about the primaries?” He asks.

“The what?” John grunts.

“Primaries.” He repeats, and taps his finger to the paper noisily. John glances up at it. “You voting?”

That’s a dumb question, he realizes, as John gives him his scrutinizing stare - like checking Dean’s breath for booze.

“This why you’ve been off lately?” He goes back to his scribbles. “Because of the primaries?”

Dean lets the paper fall. “No. I’ve been fine.” He picks up his coffee and stirs in some more sugar, lets the chimes of the bright diner fill the space between him and his father.

“Can I get you boys a refill?”

He looks up because he knows John isn’t going to answer. Something he and Sam have in common. But then Dean finds himself not replying either when he sees her. She’s got big brown curls, big brown eyes. Big bright smile. Her name tag winks with the light from the window, and her face seems to blossom somehow when Dean smiles back at her. This strange, profuse blush blooms, like blood spreading from a bullet wound.

“Actually, I was thinking about some orange juice.” He says, still holding his full cup of coffee.

“I can definitely help you with that.” She replies. “Just thinking, or wanting?”

“Wanting.” Comes out with no hesitation. Maybe too fast, even. She laughs the warm tones of a pan flute.

“And for you sir?” She turns to John - and her smile dims when she sees that he’s looking right at her. Dean hadn’t noticed, but when he does, he stiffens. John’s face looks like the safety’s off.

“Nothing for me.” His words come out with firm resolution. “I think we’re both ready for the check, actually.”

Her brow crumples. “No orange juice?”

“Not needed.” John answers for Dean. “Just the check.”

Cassie nods tight and quick, her brown eyes dancing between them for a second before her apron swishes away. John’s eyes land on Dean. He’s looking down into his coffee, stirring.

“If this is what’s got you in such a rut, boy, then take care of it at a bar. Or a club. I don’t care. But don’t bring it along while we’re on a case.”

His father’s voice drills into his front lobe like a lobotomy. He stops stirring his coffee, spoon tinkling against the mug rim when it shakes in his fist. John steps out of the booth without another word and wanders into the men’s room, leaving Dean alone with words that spun around him; like gravity keeping him in orbit.

A big cup brimming with orange juice slams down in front of him. Some spills on the table.

“I didn’t add it to your tab.” Cassie says, and when he looks up he sees nothing but sugary smile. “Or this.”

Her hand slides a thin sheet of paper to him carved with digits. He takes it from her with unsteady fingers. Their skin touches.

*

John found this nice big cabin holed-up in the trees of Oregon. It was one of those cases where he didn’t need to get in good with suburbanites, or investigate burnt remains with false ID’s, or have Dean chat up the witnesses. In fact, John was working with Bobby for most of this one, so he didn’t even make Dean come along that much.  

He brings back a boxed omelette for Sam and keeps the orange juice for himself. John chooses to go meet with Bobby over coordinates instead of coming back, which leaves the cabin sounding like a tomb once Dean enters it - not far from how it usually is, anyways. He stuffs any leftovers for John in the fridge, takes off his leather and millimeters, grabs the scissors from the draw and stuffs them down his backpocket, and finishes his juice.

Then he heads upstairs.

His bedroom was on the second floor, right across from the staircase; a tall and narrow thing with beautifully stained wood that seemed to last forever once you got past the first floor - which belonged entirely to John. Sam was on the third, not because there weren’t any extra rooms on the second though, but because the last time they let Sam stay downstairs, they had to switch states the next day.

John liked to say he “interfered with the cases”.

At the top of the third floor, there was nothing but a hallway and a door. It didn’t look much like a door under so many jambs, bolts and padlocks, but John did a good job of keeping it’s gorgeous stained wood visible. It shined with a soft glow under the tainted glass sky-light up above, raining blue and red. Dean loved it. It actually felt warm, lived in. He unlocks each slot one by one with practiced hands, feeling familiar violins inside him play with each clasp. It felt like strings snapping. Like there was an elevator filled with coal in his chest, and every lock undone felt like descending down a level. And down a level, and down a level.

The door sort of rolls open heavily to reveal his brother at his usual spot; at the desk by the window, still in his pajamas, pencils scattered around him and comically tall book towers on his shelf. Most of them were borrowed from libraries years ago, some were bought, some were stolen. Some were given to Dean as gifts from overappreciative witnesses, and some were taken from burnt remains. No matter what or how Dean got them, they all went to Sam. That was a rule that surpassed the limits of books.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says softly, grins and kicks the door shut behind him. It’s the split-seconds between putting whatever’s in his hands down and relocking it that makes Dean’s spine go crazy with pins and needles. There wasn’t a door knob on the inside, just locks. They used to have door knobs on the inside, but once punched out, they left a surprisingly wide hole. Dean juggles keys in his hands for a second as he slips the omelette down on the dresser, only picking it up again once all is said and done.

There wasn’t much in the room. Two dressers, a desk, two windows, a queen, a nightstand, a lamp, a closet and a door beside it that led to the half-bath. Just a toilet and sink. No mirror.

Sam doesn’t look up from his sketch as Dean joins him. He sets the food down on a low book tower, and peers over his brother’s shoulder. His green pencil moves deftly across the page, filling in the endless tree tops like a ghost. There’s a heavy fog swallowing the areas Sam can’t see from his windows - like where the trail to the garden starts, or where John’s impala is parked. It’s just trees and fog. Like the last sketch of northern California, except that one had water. A tiny scrape of coastal rocks. About an inch of sand. Dean swallows as he looks at where some other sketches have fallen to the ground. More trees. More fog. In fact, if he peers down a little closer, it’s all the same sketch. Every day, the same dream.

Dean turns and looks at the books instead. There’s a serious dust problem gathering on one tower. He knows Sam has already finished most of them, if not all at this point.

“Thinking we oughta swap out some of these old ones for some new ones, huh?” He says, turning back to Sam. “There’s a real big hippie-dippie library downtown full of weird shit. Write down a list for me and I’ll grab you some things. Maybe trade some of these or something. Hippies love to trade.”

His pencils keep scratching softly against the page. Dean grabs a stool, pulls it up close, lets his shoulder bump Sam’s.

“Remember that one mixer book we found?” He whispers, smiling next to Sam’s ear. “They’ve probably got some crazy pot books or something here.”

It was a cocktail book Dean had found wandering through the decrepit aisles of a library in Vegas. Yeah, a library. The last thing anyone wanted to be doing in Vegas was reading though, so Dean grabbed the book and raided the liquor store on the way home and brought it all back to Sam. That night, he watched his little brother laugh and spill just about every drink Dean gave him all over his shirt. Dean never let him live it down. It was a rare night.

It was a while ago.

Dean can tell his brother’s not up for jokes today. He runs his hands through Sam’s split-ends, brushes some out of his face. He’s always letting it get in his face. Sam keeps pencilling in his green, soft hazels lost and red-rimmed. He’s probably been up late, Dean surmises. He doesn’t know what he does in here that keeps him up, but he certainly does it often.

“Y’gonna let me cut your hair, Sammy?” He asks, words falling into Sam’s locks. “Keep letting it grow like this and I’m callin’ you Samantha from now on.”

His pencil finally stops. Dean laughs airily. He scoots his stool back with a squeak and sets it up behind Sam, straddles it and pulls the scissors out. There’s a comb in the desk Sam hands to him.

“That’a boy.” He grins, swiping the hair and long bangs out from his brother’s face. “Now, look at me.”

He slides a hand under Sam’s chin because he know he won’t do it without help. He tips Sam’s head back, lets his hair fall like curtains to the side, lets the light of the window touch his face. He can’t see it from behind him, Dean realizes, but mirrors aren’t something they keep. He runs the comb through the thick brown strands and gets to work. He’s done this so many times it’s like breathing to him. He could be a barber, in another life.

Sam finally starts to relax. Dean doesn’t know what’s got him so disconnected these days, but it’s been making simple things like breakfast and haircuts harder and harder. He takes his time going through his brother’s layers, lets his knuckles dig into Sam’s nape and roll. He knows Sam likes it when he leaves little touches here and there. It helps bring him back out of that tree and fog-filled place that he goes to every day.

Sam jerks when Dean tickles him under his jaw. His fingers drop to his armpits before he can get away and then Sam’s laughing - and the sound feels like waves crashing to Dean, tiny rasps and deep boyish chucks that remind him of how young Sam still is. He just turned twenty-one two months ago. Dean and him celebrated with purple-nurples.

“C’mon Sammy, turn around.” He says as they settle. “We’re almost done.”

Sam stands up with a grunt from his chair. He towers above Dean in his flannel pajamas and thin shirt, his shoulders broad for miles, chest puffier than before. Dean guesses the weights he got for him have been put to good use. He shakes bits of hair off himself like a mutt (Dean’s gonna have to sweep later) and then he turns the chair around in front of Dean, and sits.

Dean reaches out and rubs a hair out from under one of his scars.

He had four, and a burnt patch under his left eye. Three thick ones carved in by hot, burning glass across dominated his right side, and then one long line cut across his left cheek to the bridge of his nose. That one was partly Dean’s fault, for pulling the glass out with his scared, trembling baby-hands and letting it skid across to his nose. He didn’t do that with the other shards - he learned his lesson the first time. He left those in for the doctor’s. They had a hard time removing them, since the skin was already cauterized upon entry from the heat, and in order to take them out it meant rewounding Sam. A baby was never going to grow up looking right from that, no matter what way you sliced it.

Sam always looked better with long hair, so Dean didn’t cut it too short, just enough to keep him civilized. Luckily none of his scalp was touched by the fire, or his eyebrows, so his hair grew in just fine. Thick like Dean’s.

“You know I can bring the TV up here, right?” He muses while he works, and Sam’s eyes leap at him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You want me bring some movies from the library too?” Sam nods. “Don’t move your head.”

Dean finishes his bangs up and pockets the scissors. He couldn’t leave them up here. His hand runs through Sam’s finished locks one last time, feeling the fresh chopped end, and looks at Sam.

He’s doing it again. That thing.

That thing where he stares at Dean’s face so deeply Dean can hear his thoughts.

*

Smooth, smooth skin.

Sam watches from his window, hours later after the door’s been closed again. He can see the gate to the driveway from here, where every morning John and Dean escape into the fog and an impala engine jutters to life. It’s highbeams shine through the fog like angels.

Except now it’s midnight, not morning, and it’s just Dean escaping through the gate. He’s got his coat collar popped up and the keys to dad’s impala glinting in his hand. He moves like a thief - almost impossible to see if it weren’t for the garden lights that glow dimly in the yard. He flickers through them, and when the impala coughs awake seconds later Sam strains to hear the tell-tale grunts and groans of John waking up downstairs. He hears nothing. Chances are, the old man fell asleep with a bottle of Jack in his mouth.

Dean drives down the trail and disappears like an angel in the fog, and Sam’s eyes start stinging.

*

Dean parks the impala in a dirt lot - there was a lot of those in this part of Oregon - and slips out into the woods. Cassie said there would be a big long bridge in the middle of the park, easy to find and easy to hear because there was a rushing river underneath it. Dean followed the sounds of desperate water until he saw a tiny, slender figure in a tight black hoodie with big, bouncy hair. She stands in the center of the bridge like a keystone.

They’re like two shadows touching.

Sam hears it when Dean sneaks back in at four am, and doesn’t roll over from his bed.

*

“Hey Sammy - mind giving me a hand, here?” Dean grunts, and the door slams shut behind him as he kicks it and wrestles the 42 inch TV in hs arms down onto the dresser. He makes space by knocking old books off onto the floor - helping hand be damned. A gust of breath knocks out of him once he’s done.

“Thanks,” He says, looking at Sam. “Next time you can carry a nineties fat-back up two flight of stairs.”

Sam sits in his usual spot without even a scritch of his pencil. Dean’s brow furrows. He steps into Sam’s space, observing the sketch on his desk.

It’s just a blank page.

Sam is staring out the window. He’s wearing the same pajamas as yesterday. There’s a shadow of stubble grazing his jaw, uneven around his scars, and Dean itches to go get the razor, but it doesn’t look like Sam’s open to that today. Dean lays a hand on his shoulder - tries to bring him back.

“Hey,” He whispers. “Wanna stare at something else for a while?”

Sam’s about as enthusiastic as a wax figure.

Dean plugs in the TV anyways, and leaves the breakfast and DVD’s on the dresser next to it.

*

Sam watches Dean disappear two more times that week.

*

“I’m checking out some coordinates up north with Bobby.” John tells him the next day over breakfast. Dean is still groggy from the late night. He has a bruise on his collar that he had to cover with a flannel. His heart sinks when he hears the words - “coordinates.”

“How long?”

“About a week, maybe.”

Dean’s chest lights up. A week - that means someone has to stay here. As if John could smell his excitement, his eyes dart up at Dean sharply.

“I want you here with Sam. Only.”

Dean nods, looking down. John keeps staring at him.

*

He doesn’t tell Sam about John’s trip. It’s not like anything’s gonna change around the cabin anyways for Sam, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up thinking Dean will be in his room all day. Usually, Dean would be.

But this week, he’s busy picking up orchids to give to Cassie after she finishes her shift.

He doesn’t have a car since John took the impala, so he takes a bus. Cassie doesn’t mind - she just throws her head back and smiles when he gives her the orchids, volunteering her own car.

They spend the whole day in town, holding hands, and Dean feels like he’s died.

It’s closing in on six when Cassie finally says, “Come back to my place.”

They’re on the bridge together, listening to waterfalls. “I can’t.”

“Why?” She murmurs, her nose touching his cheek. “Is it because of that guy?”

Dean shakes his head. He knows she means his dad, but she doesn’t need to know who John really is.

“Then why?” She pries. “Do you not like me enough?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Dean teases. She smacks his arm. He kisses her - makes it last.

“Come back with me.” She whispers again.

*

Sam’s got an empty breakfast plate that’s been sitting on his dresser for more than eight hours, and the impala still hasn’t come back yet. It left this morning with John in it, nobody else, which means Dean should still be here, but he’s not. Sam can’t hear anyone downstairs.

He paces his room, going from window to window to try and see if maybe Dean’s walking back up through the garden. Maybe Dean fell asleep on the bench swing. Maybe someone crept in on Dean and hurt him, and there was no way Sam could get out and help.

Maybe Dean just snuck out again, and didn’t come back.

He tries pushing at the door, shoving at it hard to get it open. He throws his body against it - painfully grunts. It doesn’t hurt as much as his stomach does right now. His heart feels like a motorboat.

Where’s Dean?

*

Cassie’s place is a hippie bungalow filled with wind chimes, and her bed smells like lavender.

*

When Sam hears the front door open downstairs at ten o’clock that night, he shoots up from his bed.

Dean is muttering profanities as he scrambles into the kitchen and piles food onto a plate. He throws together two big cheese sandwiches with the honey-baked ham he knows Sam likes and shoves it into the microwave, then grabs chips, chocolate, and a big jug of water. He hopes Sam’s asleep - it’s hard for anyone to sleep through those locks coming undone, but Sam can sleep pretty heavily when he’s dreaming. He pops the microwave open just before it beeps and skips up the stairs two steps at a time.

He unlocks the door as quietly as he can, and after nudging it closed behind him, turns -

Sam’s standing in the middle of the room.

It’s so dark Dean can barely see his face, but he can see his big, tall silhouette, and his heart flies into his throat. He knows the look on Sam’s face isn’t a good one. He sets the food and water down shakily on the dresser, next to the untouched DVD’s and TV, and walks up to his brother.

“I’m sorry Sammy,” He breathes. “I lost track of time - I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t move towards the food. Dean knows he’s gotta be starving - he hasn’t eaten since this morning.

“C’mon,” Dean tries. “I made you something. I got some snacks too, we can -”

Sam takes a long stride forward. Dean backpedals to give him room, but Sam keeps walking until he’s pressed up against the door. There’s just enough moonlight from the window to spotlight the hickey on Dean’s neck. It hits Dean like an afterthought that he should’ve buttoned up - he knows Sam can see it. He can feel Sam’s eyes on it, like a shark on blood.

Sam presses his thumb into the bruise and watches Dean wince. His hand is cold - probably because of how cool is gets in here at night. Dean shifts under Sam’s touch, but doesn’t move. He lets him feel the purple spot and touch it, trace the indents of teeth like a museum exhibit.

Sometimes Dean forgets how much Sam doesn’t get to touch, or be touched.

Dean understands why there’s been blank pages now.

*

John calls the next day to check in. They just picked up a trail in Astoria, John says. They’re really, really close, he says.

He meets up with Cassie for lunch at a cafe named Francoise’s. It’s homey little kitchen with crepes and cortado’s, and her hair smells amazing today - like she just stepped out of the shower but he met up with her an hour ago.  

“I wanna see your place.” She says. Dean lets out a breezy chuckle.

“Why?”

“Show me yours, show you mine.” She shrugs. “I already showed you mine.”

“You can’t just make a deal like that after you’ve already done it.”

Cassie leans in with a special look in her eyes. Her scent fills his lungs.

“I can if I’ve got a lot to bet with.” She smiles.

Dean got the check minutes later.

*

When Sam sees her, it all makes sense. She’s gorgeous. He only gets about ten seconds of her walking up to the gate with Dean, but it’s more than enough for one page.

He follows the sounds of the gate creaking, to the door opening, to keys hitting the dining table, and then presses his ear up against his bedroom door for anything more.

Dean watches Cassie look around the big, rustic living room with nerves like pop-rocks.

“It’s beautiful.” She says. Dean shushes her with a kiss, and drags her upstairs into his room. She laughs a silver bell that echoes through every corner of the cabin. Dean closes his door behind him and stalks forward. She backs up, grinning, until her knees hit the bed and she’s down. Dean crawls above her.

“Need you to be quiet for me, okay?” He mouths into her pulse.

“Is that a challenge, sir?” She smarts. He nips her, and more laughter peels out.

...Sam follows the sounds across his floor, until he finds a perfectly sized notch hole in the corner. He flattens himself to the wood and peeks through, heart pounding. It’s not directly above Dean’s bed, but he can see them both on it. Their legs are tangled together under the sheets. Dean moves like a serpent under the blankets, making it undulate. He can’t see the whole thing, but he can hear it.

His breakfast plate collects dust on the dresser.

*

“Is this why you can’t ever stay the night at my place?” Cassie asks later on, while they spoon. “Because your place is better than mine?”

Dean scoffs into her nape. “No.”

The sheets rustle as she rolls over and faces him. Her skin is still flushed. “Then why?”

Dean never tells anyone the truth. John doesn’t either, and that’s what he taught Dean. John would be raising hell right now if he knew Dean had gotten close enough to anyone to be telling them the truth. But it’s Cassie. It’s different. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

He could at least go halfway.

“I have to take care of my brother.” He whispers, as if Sam was right outside the door. “He’s sick.”

Cassie frowns. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know.”

“I know.” He tells the pillow. “Our dad ain’t around to help, so it’s just me.”

“Where is he?”

He swallows. “Hospital. In Portland. I have to go check on him every day.”

“Jesus, Dean.” She wraps her arms around his neck. “You’re the best brother I’ve ever met.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything more.

*

Sam tears his sketches to pieces. His eyes are swollen with salt and his throat is clogged with it, choking. He shreds them all inch by inch into a green and blue rainbow of trees, fog, trees, fog, trees, fog, impala, John, trees, fog, Dean. Fire. He creates a heap of confetti rained down by tears and blood drops - blood. Sam touches his face, shaking.

He’s bleeding again. His fingers come away red and shiny. Pain stings across his cheek when he presses his fingernail to it...and scratches. Red pitter-patters on his shred pile.

Red pitter-patters on his blank page.

*

Cassie bites Dean’s bottom lip when they kiss goodnight at the gate at nine o’clock.

Sam watches her drive-off in her Honda, watches Dean check his watch and curse, and listens to the sounds of Dean in the kitchen downstairs. Plates clink, the microwave beeps. Sam’s stomach roars in reply, but the knot in his chest grows with every resounding step Dean takes up the stairs.

Dean curses outside the door. He’s got a plate full of pizza in one hand, and he’s lucky he left Sam a pitcher of water last time or else he’d feel like a true monster right now. He undoes the locks as fast as he can and gets inside.

“Sorry Sammy - I’m so sorry -” He kicks the door shut and turns around to find a blood bath.

Sam’s sketches are strewn all across the room and all over his bed like a mad pittbull ran through. There are blood stains covering most of them. He can’t see Sam, so he sets the food down and circles the room.

Sam’s sitting against the side of his bed, staring up at the window. The dim light of the lamp floods his torn-up, painted face. Fills his wide, lost eyes. Fear fills Dean’s body like an injection.

“Sammy?” Dean croaks, stepping forward. “Oh, god. Sam.”

His brother turns his head as slow as molasses, and when his eyes land on Dean, they become alive. His shoes scrape against the floor as he lunges to his feet and suddenly Dean is being pushed back against the dresser so hard the plate crashes against the floor.

“What have you done to yourself? Sam -” Dean stops him with two hands against his brother’s giant chest. “What did you do?”

Sam’s nostrils are flaring at him. He looks like a horrible, angry ghost, with dried blood caking his scars and some still running down his jaw. Like some terrible adult version of himself as a baby. Dean’s heart breaks when he sees the red clouds in his eyes, the salt lines going down his cheeks. This is his fault. This is all his fault.

“God, I’m so sorry Sam,” He starts, words unsteady. “Let me fix you up. C’mon. Please.”

He doesn’t move. He’s a scarlet statue above Dean, boring down on him like he wanted Dean to see where his fingernails dug, like he wanted it to be carved into Dean’s memory. Dean’s eyes sting. His hand sneaks into the draw where the towelettes are - carefully, in case Sam were to grab his wrist - and pulls them out gently.

“Please,” He says, unwrapping the plastic. “I’m sorry.”

Sam’s lip quivers. He looks down at the floor, and that’s Dean’s cue. He softly drags the moist rags across his brother’s crusted cheeks. It feels like mopping a floor with a napkin. He goes as fast as his trembling hands allow him. He just wants to get it all off - fix it. Pretend it never happened. Sam doesn’t make a sound, not a hiss or a curse - Dean knows he’s used to the sting of peroxide. By the time he’s through the whole pack of towels, Sam’s face is streaky and still bleeding in some places, and the towels are soaked.

“Y’gonna let me toss these, Sammy?” He asks, and his voice sounds rough. Sam relents and steps away from the dresser. Dean walks to the trash can in a daze, fingers still shaking as they chucked the towels. He looks through the mess coating the room. There’s blood on the bed sheets. Dean thinks he’s just going to have to buy new ones. His heart thuds heavily. He turns to Sam, who stares at him with nostrils still flaring.

“Why?”

Sam’s dark eyes slide from Dean to the desk. He turns his attention to it to find another sketch there, no colors on it besides white and red. The lines are heavily drawn, like Sam pressed his fist down too hard. Dean picks up the sketch.

It’s a hospital.

It all slots into place now. Dean’s muscles freeze up like the sketch was made of ice. When he turns to Sam, he’s panting.

“Let me explain first, okay?”

Sam stalks across the room toward him. Dean backpedals so fast he knocks books over in his wake. His tailbone cracks against the wall and Sam pushes him up against it with two paws in his collar. Dean feels like Cameron Reid. He lays his hands over Sam and tries to still his rabbit-pulse.

“You have to understand, Sammy.” He starts, shakily. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a lie - what would you have said?”

A choked sound struggles in Sam’s throat - angry, wet. Dean’s heart breaks a little more. He didn’t mean for this to happen. He didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Sam’s thumb appears at his bruise again, pressing down in this bitter, torn to pieces kind of way. Dean puts his hand on top of it, warmly.

“I fucked up.” He whispers. “An’ I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Sammy. What do you want from me?”

Sam instantly looks at the window. Dean swallows.

“Anything but that, I swear. Anything.” He pleads, but Sam’s already looking down at the floor. “C’mon Sammy, don’t do that. Let me fix this. I’ll go to Michael’s - I’ll send you pictures and videos of it. I’ll get you new pencils, you can pick which ones. Look at me.”

Sam’s eyes spring up at him like black daggers. Dean feels stabbed, pain blooming in his chest and fear creeping down his spine.

“Tell me.” He whispers, begging. “I’ll never bring her over again if you tell me.”

That changes things. Tiny microexpressions flutter about Sam’s face as it shifts from destroyed to interested at the sound of the word, “her”. Dean can feel his thumb stroking the bruise on his neck, soft and incremental, barely moving - forgiving. Dean smiles. Finally. Sam’s fingers trail from the bruise up to his jaw, to his pulse like he’s going to squeeze. But instead, he just rests his thumb against Dean’s bottom lip. He touches it gently, feeling the memory of Cassie. Dean goes numb.

“What is it?” He breathes - air skittering between his teeth. “You want a girl?”

Sam keeps stroking his plush lips.

“Sam, you know I -” Sam thumbs his upper lip, too. “Don’t do that to yourself again, Sam. Don’t hurt yourself.”

He doesn’t get any reaction from Sam. He doesn’t know what the answer is - doesn’t know where to go from here. Sam’s fingers feel too big on his mouth. He’s never done this before. In fact, he usually never touches Dean, Dean touches him. Head pats, shoulder rubs, smacks, hugs. His brother’s mesmerized.

He’s doing the thing again.

“Sam?” Dean mumbles under Sam’s fingers when he keeps petting. “Sammy?”

Sam pushes his fingers into Dean’s mouth. A muffled sound is heard, wet. His fingers taste like iron as they fill him up. They feel the pad of his tongue and reach to the back of his throat. Dean gags and shoves them away with a hand on Sam’s wrist.

“What are you doing Sammy?” He pants, words shaking. Sam holds Dean’s face with both hands and draws him close. Dean swallows. “We can’t do that, Sammy. I’m not a girl.”

Sam halts. His hands slide from Dean’s cheeks, and a familiar sort of heartache appears in his eyes. He steps away. Dean watches and he starts to get it - he starts to understand it.

“Wait - Sammy,” He grabs his brother’s hand. “Is this it? This what you want?”

A glaze of intent comes over Sam’s wild, wrecked eyes. Dean swallows.

“Okay, Sam. It’s okay.”

His fingers glide up to Dean’s mouth again, touching, and this time Dean lets him. He even takes Sam’s fingers and holds them, knowing exactly where they’ll go whether he likes it or not, and slips them into his mouth. Breath sucks into Sam’s lungs. He pushes his fingertips into the back of Dean’s throat and feels his lips tighten around them, feels his tongue slick them up, feels Dean suck them down with eyelids squeezed shut.

He wants this for Sam. He wants Sam to be happy. He’ll die before he has to be the source of his brother’s pain.

When he opens his eyes, Sam is staring at his lips and breathing in tight shakes, inches away from his face. He looks to Sam for approval and gets it in the form of his fingers pulling out and smearing shiny saliva all over Dean’s lips, making them wet. Dean is trembling everywhere. Sam drags his hand down to Dean’s bruise, leaving it slick after a pinch, then continues south to the buttons of his shirt. He pops them open until Dean’s chest shows, then his stomach, and his nipples. Sam’s eyes flutter all over his bare skin. It makes him nervous.

He flattens his hand to Dean’s chest, and touches a nipple. A glaze of warmth falls over Dean. This is really happening. Sam rolls it with his thumb, listens to Dean’s breath shake, then suddenly he’s dipping down faster than Dean would prefer and slipping it between his lips. Dean’s stomach sucks inwards with how deep of a breath he takes. His hand flies into Sam’s hair, tangling.

“It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay,” He chants in a whisper, more for himself than Sam. His tongue is flat against his nipple, lapping in long, heavy strokes, then nipping. Dean hisses. His hand clenches in Sam’s hair - and when Sam sucks it into his mouth, between his teeth, Dean makes a fist. His nipple is going to be bright pink, and nothing will ever be same between him and Sam anymore. Nothing.

A suckling sound stings Dean’s ears when Sam unlatches. An even louder sound punches out of Dean when suddenly Sam’s hand grabs his bulge - grabs it, no warning. Dean’s body rustles against the wall as he starts cursing, shifting around it. Sam’s hand feels like iron. Fear races up and down Dean’s spine. He doesn’t remember getting hard.

“Sam - ah,” He pants. “Slow.”

Sam rubs him up hard. Dean doesn’t understand how he can be an artist with hands like that. His breaths come out in shudders. He wraps his arms around Sam’s neck and pants against his pulse, eyelids clenched. He just had sex - twice - and a bright white fear hits Dean at the thought that Sam might want to taste Cassie. It’s dispelled however when Sam’s hands travel elsewhere. They slip around the waistband of his jeans, until palms grip Dean’s ass, feeling. Dean doesn’t know what to think, anymore - doesn’t know if Sam even knows what he wants. Sam feels the bare skin of his lower back under his shirt and toy with the idea of going lower. His heart is hammering like a drill.

“What do you want Sam? C’mon. Give me something.” Dean searched his eyes for any clues. They trail up from Dean’s skin though and become glued to his mouth. He swallows.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that. He doesn’t know if he can - it’s Sammy.

It’s Sammy pushing down on his shoulders, nudging him, and Dean hesitates at first, then slips down to his knees. Sam’s got a hand in his hair, keeping him anchored. Dean’s eyes level with the thick package Sam aims at him and his heart skips. Sam’s definitely proportionate with the rest of his body. He’s so hard Dean can smell him.

“Okay,” He murmurs to himself. He lifts his hands, shaking like death, and shoves them at Sam’s belt. “Okay Sammy.”

It comes undone sloppily from Dean doing everything too fast, and then he’s tearing away Sam’s buttons and zipper. He shoves his jeans down to his knees, then freezes at his old, worn black boxer-briefs. His cock looks like it’s going to burst right through.

Dean swallows. “Need to buy you some new ones of these, huh?”

Sam’s hand slips from Dean’s hair to his chin, tilting his head up so he can see Sam’s bloody face and feel his bloody hands stroking his cheek. Keeping him steady as he presses his bulge against Dean’s face. Dean’s eyelids flutter. He opens his mouth, lets Sam push his balls in, sucks. The fabric is musky on his tongue. He gets it as wet as he can, knows that’s how he likes it when girls do it to him, before finally bringing Sam’s boxers down. Dean’s breath skips.

“Jesus, Sam.”

Sam groans above him and pushes his head.Dean latches on to his balls instead and suckles, buying himself some time before trying to shove the thing that Sam’s got into his mouth. He tastes heavy - makes Dean’s stomach flip when he thinks about what he’s doing. He feels Sam pushing his face in, holding his shirt up so it doesn’t touch his cock. Dean glances up at Sam’s face, feeling a rush of emotion. Sam.  

A muffled, alarmed sound is swallowed down when Sam shoves it all in - all of it. Dean gags but Sam stays in. He lets out a deeper groan, feeling Dean’s lips tighten, his cheeks hollowing, and pushes into him hard enough to make his balls press against his chin. Dean makes drowned sounds, overwhelmed. Sam fucks his words down his throat and he can only dig his nails into Sam’s thighs to get him to pull out. His cock hangs against Dean’s cheek as he sucks in air.

“Let me,” Is all he can get out. He presses his lips to the head, sucking it slowly, letting his tongue flick at it. Sam lets out a sound. Then he laps the underside of it with a flat tongue; long strokes that feel endless with the length of him. He starts sucking again, wrapping his fist around the base. Sam jerks his head down on his cock when he feels Dean’s grip. It thrusts into the back of his throat, balls slapping, and Dean’s protest is lost while Sam’s hips start pumping. He struggles, lips stretching. Tears prick at his eyes from how tightly they clench. Sam goes fast like he needs to come, now, and Dean gets pushed back against the wall from the force. Tiny sounds knock out of him. He can taste Sam leaking in his mouth. He can feel drool on his chin, can taste salt. His hands grip Sam’s thighs, and he lets go - lets it happen. His jaw slackens and he lets Sam fuck his mouth - if that’s what he liked, then he can have it.

His hand stretches down to his jeans to adjust them - only realizing as an afterthought why they’re uncomfortable. A whimper hits his throat. When Sam hears it, he pulls out and pushes Dean back against the wall so he can look down. Dean takes his cock into his fist without a thought and pumps while Sam reaches down. Another whimper shudders out when Sam grips his cock, squeezes it tight - Dean starts pumping Sam harder.

“C’mon Sam, c’mon,” He begs. “Come for me.”

Sam rolls his palm against the head of Dean’s cock - Dean’s gut tightens in a tell-tale way, and Dean’s not ready for that either. He swallows Sam down again as deep as he can go and moans, letting Sam feel the sound. His skull bumps against the wall when Sam’s hips react instantly. He lets go of Dean’s cock and grips his jaw instead, shoving in and fucking. His moan is knocked to pieces. Sweat glazes his forehead.

Sam pulls out at the last second - not hearing the muffled “no” -  and comes all over Dean’s face, his open mouth. Dean closes his eyes and tastes Sam. He lets him stroke his cock against Dean’s lips hypnotically, flicks his tongue out at the wrong second and tastes more of him. His breath comes out ragged, throat feeling sore. Lips crimson. He looks up at Sam with glazed eyes, and prays to God Sam doesn’t touch his hard-on.

But Sam doesn’t. He spends a great deal of time just spreading his come all over Dean’s face, pushing his thumbs into Dean’s mouth. Sam’s name is a murmur on Dean’s tongue.

*

John calls Dean the next day and tells him to meet him at a bar downtown for debriefing. It’s only noon, but Dean grabs a bus and strolls into a joint called The Stag. It’s part restaurant, which means good things for Dean because he hasn’t eaten all day.

And he can’t bring himself to eat when he’s there, either.

John sits across from him with a full tumbler and his notebook spread out and gives him a look.

“Y’gonna eat that skirt steak or let it crawl back to the pasture?”

Dean looks down at the full plate of steak nachos he ordered, and pushes them forward. John swipes up a triangle and chomps down. Dean looks at the maps spread out, notices some are of Astoria and the coast.

“What are those for?”

“New trail. Up along the northern coast.” John washes it down with a swill of his bourbon. “Bobby thinks he’s found a guy who knows what we’re after.”

Dean nods, sort of idly.

“How’s your brother?” He grunts. After a silent second, he adds, “Good?”

Dean nods, sort of idly.

John closes his notebook with a powerful thud that startles Dean.

“Let me guess. Your girlfriend dumped you.”

He shifts in his seat at the thought of Cassie. He hadn’t spoken to her yet - hadn’t told her she wasn’t going to come over ever again. In a way, John was predicting the future.

“Something like that.” He replies. John nods and takes another swill.

“All that shit’s distracting you,” He sniffs. “S’for the best. Get your head back in the game, son.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m not going to be back for at least two days. Take care of Sammy. Don’t go sniffing around no more girls.”

Dean’s stomach curls. John orders another tumbler before he leaves again. Afterwards, Dean kills time around the town for as long as he possibly can.

*

Sam cleans his room for the first time.

Dean usually does it, because Sam doesn’t think of it. Why clean a room nobody ever sees? One that’s locked, and made specifically to keep other people out and one person in? But something in Sam changed, like a light switch. He didn’t want Dean to clean this time, he’d do it himself. He pushes all the red and white confetti into a trash bag, along with the broken plate and dirty pizza. He’d throw it out the window if he could, but his windows are bolted down.

He leaves it in the corner. Dean can take it out with him when he brings him lunch.

Except Dean never brings him lunch.

Or dinner.

*

He slips the key into the front door to the cabin at eight thirty.

“Boo.”

He spins around. Cassie stands with a coy smile beside a flower bush, moon beaming into her hair. Dean’s heart lifts like a feather.

“Cass it’s late,” He says. “What are you doing here?”

“Loitering.” She rolls up and slides her arms around his neck. “Waiting to break into this cabin because I heard a very handsome man lives here.”

Dean smiles. “Sounds like you’ve got the right cabin.”

“You gonna let me in then?”

He falters. “Be a shame to throw away all this beautiful moonlight, though, wouldn’t it?”

“Be a shame to throw away the mood I just stepped into, wouldn’t it?” She replies, and kisses his neck. His jaw, his cheek. His lips. “Y’gonna let me in, Mr. Moonlight?”

He swallows, thinking of Sam. He left him a big breakfast this morning, with five sandwiches on it. He hoped it would keep Sam running for a long, long time before needing another one.

“Only for a little bit,” He relents. Cassie kisses him hard, and practically shoves him through the door.

*

Sam lifts his head when he hears a familiar gasp under the floor.

He rolls out of bed, slipping to his knees and crawling to the hole in the wood. He peers through and sees darkness - barely a dim light. It feels like a dream. The sounds slip through the hole and sound startlingly real though - soft girl-moans, sounding rhythmic.

Sam’s world becomes hazy. It feels like pins and needles in his chest.

Dean came back - with her. And didn’t even bring him dinner.

He crawls on hands and knees toward the door. Maybe if he banged loud enough, Dean would hear him. His palm scrapes along something metal. He pauses. In the darkness he can hardly make it out, but he knows what it is when he feels it.

A key.

It must’ve fallen out of Dean’s pocket yesterday when Sam shoved him around. Touching it felt like releasing a thousand butterflies. He groggily climbs to his feet and shoves it into each lock. They unlatch with satisfying slots, and the door creaks open.

The hallway yawns before him.

He steps out with bare feet, shakily, like stepping into a dream. It has to be a dream for it to be this easy. It’s never this easy. He puts one foot after the other on the stairs like the each weighed twenty pounds, and listens as the sounds of the girl’s breath got louder. There’s a bed creaking. A light shines on the hall of the second floor - not bright, but dim, enough for Sam to through the wide open door of Dean’s bedroom. The tan covering Dean’s back and the brown leg thrown over his shoulder.

She keens.

Sam is hypnotized. He’s never actually watched before. Dean’s hid skin mags in his room before, like a mom hiding easter eggs - some sort of awkward mercy - but he’s never actually seen it done, despite knowing all the different ways how.

Dean hauls her up by the waist. Her body rolls forward and on top of him, letting light hit her face. She sways for a moment, holding his face in her hands like he was a god, then rocks up and down in a slow grind. She lets out a deep moan when Dean pushes up into her.

...Sam listens as it curls into a shrill scream when her eyes land on him.

The sound drives through him like a spear, making him stumble back. She rolls off Dean and he spins around, face falling when he sees Sam standing like the undead in the middle of the hall.

“Sam,” He swallows, voice lost in the trill of Cassie’s screams. Sam nearly trips over his feet backing down the stairs, feet thudding all the way down towards the front door. Dean is hot on his trail. Sam makes it as far as the living room before Dean pushes him. He’s knocked forward into the wall with a pained grunt. When he rolls around, Dean’s standing there in boxers.

“What are you thinking Sam?” His words shake. “You know what dad said.”

Sam’s nostrils flare dangerously. Dean’s eyes widen in fear, taking a step back - remembering that he forgot dinner. No, he can’t say he forgot. He just didn’t bring it. And he can see the molten anger swelling in Sam’s eyes now that Dean’s here in front of him, now that Cassie’s here, thundering down the steps in her dress and shoes. Dean glances between the two of them as she nears.

“Sam, please - don’t  -” He starts, with no chance to finish before Sam’s screams are filling the living room. Not Cassie’s - Sam’s. Dean watches in terror as she lunges at him like a bat and rakes her sharp nails across his scars. Sam’s sounds are mangled. He crumples to the floor, holding his face as red slips through his fingers.

“Cass! What the hell are you doing?” He bursts. She whips around, panting.

“Call the police, Dean.”

“No,” He snaps. Her brow furrows. A lump hits his throat. “No, Cass - he’s my brother.”

Cassie’s face shutters like a silent film, and then craters out into this sick sort of horror. She looks at the two of them as if they’re murderers - before running out the door. It slams behind her like a gunshot. Dean’s heart flies into this state of emergency. He looks between the door and Sam.

Sam’s too busy whimpering over his face to fight Dean as he yanks him to his feet and shoves him back up the steps. He trips several times, but Dean keeps dragging him until he can jerk him back into the attic. Sam grabs the door with a sharp, desperate sound that cuts Dean inside. His hands are too slippery to hold on, though. Dean gives him a final push and sends him rolling to the attic floor. He slams the heavy door before Sam can stand up and locks the padlock a split-second before his brother’s body collides against it. His hands fly to lock the rest of them. Sam keeps banging against it, like a beast, and when he hears Dean’s footsteps rushing down the stairs he lets out another torn scream. It fills up the cabin like a chainsaw.

Dean tears out of the front door and through the garden. He finds her in the driveway, pulling out into the road. Her headlights shine on him like he was a deer. He shields his eyes.

“Cass?” He yells. “Let me explain, please.”

“Get out of the way you psychotic freak, or I swear to god I’ll run you down!” She cries.

Pain shoots through his chest. He holds his hands up in surrender, legs heavy as lead as he forces himself back into the garden. Her tires screech and kick up dirt as she peels down the road.

He stays outside staring at the road for the next half hour.

*

The attic is still banging when he reenters the cabin threshold, eyes red-rimmed and stinging.

He finds the key on the living floor where Sam fell, circled in blood drops like a crime scene. It’s his spare key - the one he keeps in his pocket, not on his keychain - which explains how Sam might’ve got it. He takes it with him upstairs, clenching it in his fist like a curse.

Moonlight drips in red and blue on the attic hall. The door isn’t shaking or jarring with the weight of Sam’s body against it, like he thought it might be. Instead there’s crashing. Throwing. Thudding. Something shatters like glass inside, triggering sharp memories, and he shoves the key into the locks so quickly he nearly breaks it.

Sam’s room is in pieces. Books and DVD’s are scattered all across the floor, there’s a torn trash bag in the corner, his dresser is shoved askew, and then there’s Sam, ready to tear off his own hands as he tries to unbolt the window.

“Sam, what are you doing? No!” Dean throws the door shut behind him, puts the key down and practically leaps at Sam. It only takes one livid shove from his brother to send him flying back across the room, head knocking against the wall like a hammer. He groans into his hand, skidding down to his knees as the world gets dizzy. When it finally slows down, he looks up and sees Sammy towering above him. He swallows.

“Please, Sam. It was a mistake.”

Anger lashes across Sam’s face like Dean had just slapped him. The lighting in the room suddenly becomes topsy-turvy as Sam yanks the lamp away from the nightstand and bolts it at the wall. The vase shatters with a shriek, and when it falls to the floor the cover is knocked off, letting bright unfiltered light spew into the room in an unattractive ray.

Sam’s face is lit up like a demon.

“Sam - wait,” He jolts when Sam makes a move toward him, but it’s only to step over him and grip the TV tight in his paws. One jerk sends the plug sparkling out of the outlet, letting him haul it to the window. He rears back to throw it. Dean scrambles to his feet and wedges himself between Sam and the window.

“Don’t - don’t! Remember what dad said, Sam? You break the window and you don’t get another one. Remember that, Sammy?”

His arm falters, letting the TV drop a few inches in the air. Dean grabs Sam’s arm loosely, holds it.

“Put it down Sammy. C’mon, you don’t have to do that.” He swallows. “She’s gone.”

Sam’s eyes are thin as slits when they find Dean’s guilt-ridden face. He throws the TV aside. It crashes on the ground with a horrible spark and fizz, screen cracking. Something new hurts in Dean’s chest when he sees it break. Sammy never even used it.

“Good,” He forces, looking at his brother earnestly. “Just relax, Sammy.”

Sam is farthest thing from relaxed right now. His fists are balled up, tight and blood-stained, and his cheek still cracks with red from Cassie’s cold nails. Dean pushes the lump in his throat down and takes a slow step into Sam’s space, palms raised.

“Let me fix you up, okay?”

A sickening snarl cuts out from Sam’s throat, half-pained and half-infernal. Dean nods quickly and looks down. Tries to silently talk down the fear swallowing his heart.

He knows what will help.

“Relax, Sammy. It’s okay.” He reenters Sam’s threshold with a softer voice. Sam’s lip twists threateningly as his hands touch his pajama shirt, clasping it in his fingers. “C’mere. It’s okay.”

He kisses Sam’s neck; tiny, hesitant flutters. He can taste sweat and adrenaline, like a wild animal. He presses his lips against Sam’s hot pulse and feels how quick it beats. Unpredictable. He nips at the skin, licks, feels Sam’s breath washing his skin, then travels up to his cheek. He kisses the scar on his left, running to his nose - the dry one - and follows the line of his nose down to his lips, and presses his mouth to Sammy’s. At first, there’s no response. Sam’s a perfectly contained statue of rage. Then Dean flicks his tongue out, bites Sam’s bottom lip, and finds the switch that sets Sam off.  

Sam slams Dean’s back against the wall. A grunt knocks loose from him and is swallowed by Sam’s mouth as he shoves his tongue down his throat, making Dean taste the pang of iron. Dean’s arms slip around Sam’s neck. He was giving Sam his first kiss, and Sam was devouring it. He kisses Dean hard and rough, with teeth, making him wince. Then Sam grabs his cock through his thin boxers, and Dean freezes up.

“Ah,” He shudders. “Sam - slow -”

Sam’s grip tightens like a wrench. Dean lets out a whimper, sending a hand down to cover Sam’s and show him how. But Sam doesn’t want to be taught - he wants to make Dean feel him. He slides out of Dean’s hold and flies right into Dean’s boxers, tugging them down under Dean’s balls. Dean gasps, rickety. He’s not sure if he’s ready for this.

Sam puts all five fingers on it and jerks him rough and dry. He yanks, slapping against Dean’s balls, making him shift and writhe uncomfortably, making his voice wobble tight little “ah, ah, ah’s” like he didn’t know what to do. Sam’s eyes are hooked on Dean’s thick cock, pink-tip wet, still slick from earlier. Dean presses his mouth into Sam’s neck and hides his desperate face.

“Sam - I can’t,” His words are broken by sounds of struggle, panting. “F-Fuck.”

Anger is clear in Sam’s pace. Relentless. He lets Dean sink his teeth into his neck and smother his tiny moans there, vibrations. He clenches his fist a little harder and they shoot up, frantic. There’s a panicked edge to them, stemming purely from the fact that it’s Sammy. His Sammy. Making his stomach leap, his gut tighten. His hips pump into Sam’s fist, face ducking down.

Sam’s hand is working him like a crank.

A shaky sound falls out. He tips his head back and when Sam’s teeth latch onto his nipple, he puts a hand in his hair, damp with sweat. Lets Sam suckle. Yelps when he bites, back arching off the wall instantly. Sam shoves him back against it and sucks him again, jerking faster. Dean’s eyelids clench.

“Sammy,” He whispers, breath skittering. His body tightens - his spine freezes with fear. Sam’s head rears back up and Dean shoves his face into his neck, panting. “Sam - please.”

Sam’s teeth come down on his neck in a hot plunge. An unsure moan bursts out of him, and he comes all over Sam’s fist. Sam milks him with tight knuckles, raking sounds from him that would otherwise sound painful if it weren’t for the fact is come was dripping from Sam’s fingers. He whimpers softly into Sam’s skin. Tremors shock his body like tiny lightning bolts, making him dig his fingers into Sam’s nape. When he looks down, Sam is thumbing the head of his cock.

“Here,” He breathes, shakily, and wraps his hand around Sam’s to gently guide it away. Sam doesn’t go at first. Dean uses his other hand to palm Sam’s cock, distract him, and that’s the ticket. Sam lets Dean tuck his own sore cock back into his boxers and puts two paws on his shoulders. He pushes Dean down. The memory of how achey his jaw was yesterday has Dean hesitating. He tries to knead Sam through his flannel instead, use his hand - Sam’s already beaming, thick and long. He fingers the waistband of Sam’s pajamas, but as soon as he makes to pull them down Sam is pressing down harder on his shoulders. Dean relents. He falls to his knees on trembling, spasmic legs.

“Okay. Okay Sam - look,” Dean noses his fat bulge. “I’m doing it. Yeah?”

Sam’s hand threads into his hair and presses his face against it. Dean opens up without a thought and mouths at the fabric, feeling the heavy weight of his balls against his lips. Sam was swollen. Anger punctured every roll of his hips as he pumped against Dean’s face, trying to bury him. Dean gripped his thighs, nails bared in warning to slow him down. He still has bruises from where the back of his head hit the wall too hard. He glances over at the bed, clean and free of paper and blood. Sam must’ve cleaned up at some point.

“Hey - hey, Sam, c’mere.” Dean held Sam by the hips and unsteadily drew himself up. His hand slipped into Sam’s - it felt slick with his come. Sam watched with knit, testy brows as Dean wiped Sam’s hand on his pajama shirt then tugged at it, prying it off Sam’s torso. Heat radiated from his bare skin. Sam had muscle in places Dean didn’t even think of. His nerves spark at the animal exterior. “Okay. C’mon, Sammy.”

Dean held Sam’s hand as he slipped onto the bed, but Sam didn’t follow. A shadow of vulnerability hit Dean as he layed down, hoping Sam would understand. He didn’t want to have to explain this to him - he’s given Sam enough skin mags to know.

“C’mere Sam,” Dean swallows. “It’s okay.”

Sam slowly joins him, after a second of confusion. He knees up on top of Dean, who quickly grabs him by the thighs and guides him up to his chest. Once Sam is straddling it, Dean unties the strings to his pants with athritic fingers. His breath is punched out in shallow clouds. He can smell Sam. He tears the strings off as fast as he can, faster than he can think about it, and pulls Sam’s cock out. It’s heavy in his hand - thick. Sam lets out a soft, heated rumble as Dean jacks him in slow pulls. Dean thinks he’s getting it. His tongue flickers out to lap at the head. Sam’s already leaking. He swallows and suckles the head into his mouth, tasting Sam at the back of his throat, feeling him instinctively push in. His eyes pinch closed for a second as Sam rolls the head in and out from his tight, shiny pink lips, his scent filling his lungs. Sam is fascinated with his lips. His face. Dean pulls him out and dabs the head against his lips, getting Sam revved up - making him groan.

“Put it in my mouth Sammy, c’mon.” Dean pushes Sam up so his balls touch his chin, wraps his arms around his thighs. “Fuck my mouth for me. Do it.”

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides right to the back of Dean’s throat and starts thrusting, tight little jack-knife motions that make Dean’s legs bend at the knees and shift around on the sheets, making noise. His head rests safely against Sam’s soft pillow, thankfully, smelling like his brother’s deodarent. Comforting, while he chokes on his cock. Sam feels so much bigger this way. No way to escape the thick girth of him squeezing in. The old bedframe creaks unhappily as Sam ruts into his mouth like a dog, balls slapping, Dean’s whimpers and wet gags lost under the taste of Sam drooling down his throat.

Sam pulls out at one point and smacks his head against Dean’s lips - mimicking him. Dean kisses the head, sucks at it with loose lips, but then Sam is smacking his cheeks with it, his smooth skin. He turns his head and runs his tongue up the side of his cock, pulling a small sound out of him. Sam grabs his face and shoves his cock back in, pumping harder. A moan is strangled in his throat. His wet eyes look up at Sam, glazed, and Sammy is staring down at him. Doing the thing.

Dean’s hands wander up from Sam’s thighs to touch his sides, his hard abs. He’s so firm, it’s as if he’s been having cage fights up here. His legs spread around Dean’s head, and Dean’s do too; they make a V behind Sam, knees bending like he wanted someone down there. Unconscious reaction. Sam’s balls make loud smacking sounds as he takes longer punches in.

He’s going to come. Dean can feel it - can taste the salt.

He makes a noise of confusion when Sam pulls out instead. Sam pushes his balls into his mouth, and Dean opens and sucks them with wide lips compliantly, but then he’s backing away from Dean completely. He sits up with a tangled brow.

“Sam?” His voice is hoarse.

His brother is taking off his pants, throwing them aside, before descending upon Dean’s boxers. When he finds his cock half-hard in Sam’s hand he swallows, icy pricks along his spine.

“Sam, what are you doing?” He shivers as cold air hits his bare skin, boxers flung into some dark corner of the room. Sam swallows his mouth in a kiss - a hot, iron kiss. Dean moans softly...before the sound evolves into a sharp whimper as Sam grips his cock again. His hand flies down reactively to cover Sam’s, make him slow down, but Sam’s already crawling down the length of his body and leaving him panting. “Sam?”

Wet kisses are pressed into his stomach, which flutters nervously. His cock throbs in Sam’s tight hand. A tongue flickers against the head - and Dean’s back shoots up. Sam never said - he didn’t. Then the tongue is joined by lips, saliva pooling out in a rush and running down Dean’s cock, and when Sam’s mouth swallows him down a deep, broken sound curls out of him.

“Sam - fuck, Sam,” He presses his elbows into the bed, eyelids clenched. Sam’s mouth is a tight, wet ring. His head tips back, chest pumping unsurely. “Sam.”

Sam has no finesse. His head starts bobbing instantly, keeping two fingers around the base like a turniquet. It’s an anaconda grip, spit drooling everywhere and the head of his cock touching the back of Sam’s throat whenever he sunk down. Sam might be better at swallowing than Dean is, but there’s definitely teeth here and there that punch sharp, muffled sounds out of him. His whole body writhes under Sam.

He doesn’t want to moan. Doesn’t want to murmur Sam’s name. This isn’t about him.

He keeps his sounds caught behind the tight line of his lips, nothing but an endless, shaking trill. Sam has no problem swallowing him down to the base without pause, making his cock stand hard, tall and pink. He pushes Dean’s thighs up so he can get at his balls, and Dean holds his legs up by the knees obediently. Drool leaks down his crack.

“Fuck, fuck,” He chants as Sam sucks his balls into his mouth. There’s a wet smack as he rolls each one in and out. “Oh, fuck - Sam.”

His cock is swallowed again and Dean can’t stop his hand from flying into Sam’s hair, knotting and combing through the locks. He doesn’t push, doesn’t have that type of courage. He just threads his hands through, over and over. Watching, until his toes curl and he has to tip his head back, bite back a groan. Sam doesn’t stop. He pulls at Dean’s oversensitive cock with his lips, tight as a rubber band, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s ready to come in his brother’s mouth yet.

“Sammy - oh, god.” He pushes Sam’s head away. It works for a second, his cock slapping against his stomach, but then Sam’s descending on it again quickly and Dean knows he can’t fight it. “Fuck. Sam - Sam, ah...ah!”

A wet, sloppy finger shoves into his ass. It all happens so fast Dean hardly has time to do anything except yelp and scoot away frantically. Sam follows him on hands and knees. He wraps a hand around Dean’s cock and makes him stop - makes him whimper and pant - before Sam’s crawling up between his legs. His knees spread to make way for the size of him. Sam leans down and kisses him, smothering a worried moan.

“What are you doing? Ah -” He whimpers when he feels fingers rubbing down there, feeling at his hole. “I’ve never - Sam, you’ve never -”

He stops when Sam’s thumb appears on his bottom lip, fingers grazing the upper. His eyes dart all over Sam’s face, searching for something. Sam’s eyes are hard to see in the dark, but he can see half his face from the moonlight in the window. He can see wild, heavy intent.

“Slow,” Dean swallows. “Go slow, okay Sam?”

Sam nudges at his lips impatiently. He opens up, sucks them loosely, soaks them as much as he can. He knows Sam’s got something in the nightstand - Dean bought him some for his twenty-first. He hid it in the third draw, and he knows Sam has used it before. He hopes so. Sam isn’t reaching for it. His fingers disappear from Dean’s mouth and into the darkness, and next thing he feels is Sam pushing inside with his big fingers. Two - two’s too much. Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulder, muffling his mouth against Sam’s neck. They punch in - and Dean keens.

They feel huge, and they’re not even all the way in yet. Dean sounds like a virgin. His breaths are sharp and quick, shallow, and whenever Sam gets past a knuckle he lets out a wobbly moan. Sam pushes his back down against the bed and holds him there with a broad palm flat against his chest. Dean wraps his hand around Sam’s wrist, uses his other hand to hold his knee up high for Sam, and once he feels Sam start shoving in and out he can’t muffle anything anymore. Sam punches out sharp little moans.

He can’t believe this is happening. He doesn’t know if he’s going to come or cry. His cock drools on his stomach and his ass burns with the speed of Sam’s hand fucking in and out of him, making him feel like a girl - making him sound like a girl. He can hardly get a word out. Everything is broken into bits and pieces of “Sam” and “uh-huh-uh” and “Sam”, with a vein of struggle and discomfort. His hand leaves Sam’s wrist to slap against the third draw. It’s just as he thought - it’s still in the packaging.

He tears it out of the box, uncaps it and squeezes with violently shaking hands. It gets all over his cock in the process, but he doesn’t care. Sam sees it and pours it all over his hole, staining the sheets, then shoves in three fingers and Dean wails. His back arches up off the bed like an exorcism.

“Fuck, Sammy - uhn,” He groans out loud, and grips his own cock. Starts jacking it quickly, like if he didn’t he’d start crying. His fist slaps against his skin noisily as Sam plays with his hole, finger-fucks it until it’s pink and sore. Dean’s never had anyone do that before - not even girls. Sam’s doing it like it’s all he ever wanted to do. Dean squeezes his eyes closed and tips his head back. He can feel himself getting close again. His stomach is flipping like a fish, panic clawing in his head that he’s going to come for the second for his brother.  But he needs this. Sam needs this. Sam’s fingers spear into him as deep as they can go, and Dean doesn’t stop moaning.

When they pull out, Dean knows what’s coming. His hand slows on his cock, eyes looking Sam up and down. He’s leaning in real close to Dean. One hand perches beside Dean’s head and the other stays down there in the darkness - and yeah, Dean can feel the blunt, fat head of his cock prodding there, making him twitch.

“Y’gonna fuck me Sam?” He whispers against Sam’s lips. His fist is still slapping - like going any faster would help what’s about to happen. “S’that what you want?”

Sam nods, hips unsteady. He’s pressing the head against Dean lightly, like he’s scared.

“C’mon Sam,” He wraps his legs around Sam’s waist. “Do it for me.”

Lips crash against Dean’s - quick, unsure. Dean lets his tongue in and kisses back, slipping his hand down from his cock while Sam’s eyes are closed and wrapping it around Sam’s instead. Sam lets out a tortured sound. He presses the head against his wet, sore hole and bears down, heels digging into Sam’s back.

“Fuck me Sam, c’mon.”

His hips jerk inwards and shove, rutting into Dean. Dean’s brow crumples in a desperate knot, moan fractured - and then Sam thrusts in hard and punches a sharp cry out of him. Sammy’s name shoots out a thousand times, one lube-soaked hand slipping against the headboard, and it barely holds on when it starts slamming against the wall. Sam’s like a machine. He juts in with quick, curt punches until his balls are squeezed against Dean, and then starts plowing away like a dog in heat. Dean falls back against the bed and presses his knees into his chest with slick fingers.

Sam’s fucking him. It’s really happening.

The room is filled with Dean’s wrecked sounds. Moans, cries, and when Sam decides to drive in deep, a high-pitched whimper. He feels like he’s going to cry. Sam’s bigger than a gun, but he acts like it’s nothing. His teeth sink into Dean’s neck as he fucks him, hips snapping. He threads his hands through Sam’s hair and makes a fist, feeling his brother’s tight pants against his pulse.

“Uh, ah - goddamn it Sammy. Fucking big - fucking huge.” Dean whimpers, and Sam rumbles, vibrating against Dean’s neck. His balls slap against his ass when he jack-knife’s in. He cries out a long, twisted warble as  Sam speeds up. The bedframe is punching a hole through the wall. He thanks his stars John isn’t home - the things he might do to Dean if he knew. It absently crosses Dean’s mind: John might not do anything if he knew. He might even be happy Dean found a satisfying cross between taking care of Sammy and and taking care of himself.

His thoughts short-circuit when Sam rolls his hips into a happy place inside Dean, and suddenly everything changes.

“Fuck, Sam. Sam! Fuck - there,” He leans up on his elbows and locks his ankles together, tying Sam’s hips down. Sam might be slow on the uptake, but he makes up it in speed. Dean’s breath sucks into his throat. His hand scrambles to fist his cock. He’s gonna come like this. “Sammy.”

Sam looks up. His face is flushed, red glinting in the light. His black eyes find Dean, and he hitches his legs up higher around his waist. His balls slap louder against him. Dean reaches up one hand to tangle it in Sam’s hair and smash their lips together, teeth knocking.

The iron taste of Sam makes him come with a choked, smothered cry.

Sam’s hips lock against him for a moment as he looks down, watches Dean’s come splatter against his stomach with a furrowed brow. Dean’s head falls back, lets him look. His fingers are pinched tight around the head of his cock, like he wanted to cut off the flow, wanted to make it stop, but he’s coating himself in thick white. Body wracked with tremors, thighs spasming around Sam’s waist. Sam starts up a quick, plunging rhythym again and knocks his head back against the pillows, makes the bedframe groan again.

His muscles loosen like a string-less puppet. He lets Sam push his knees into his chest, shortening his breath into quick rasps, and feels the lube start to thin as Sam rams home. It takes him longer - makes Dean sorer.

When Sam’s close, Dean holds his cheek like a mother, and murmurs, “Sammy.”

*

The sliver of mayonaise shakes like jello on his knife the next morning.

They’ve been like that all morning. His hands. Trembling, like death.

They haven’t stopped since he woke up hours ago to white fog outside Sam’s window.

John calls and tells him they’ve got a new case. Dean leaves the half-made sandwiches to get cold on the counter and slams the door behind him before he even hangs up.

Sam watches him leave before lunch.

*

“It ain’t too far, that’s the good part. It’s only about two hours north of here. I’m thinking you’ll make it back in time to check up on Sammy before dinner. Shouldn’t be a problem if you leave him enough food in the morning.” John prattles on across the table. He snaps his fingers. “You with me here, major Tom?”

Dean looks up from the cracked yolks on his plate. John’s eyes are flat.

“The hell’s that on your neck?”

Fuck. He forgot to button up. His fingers touch at it reactively - his skin screams out from where Sam’s teeth broke in.

“This all you been doing while I’m gone? Chasing tail around?” He snorts and cuts into his sirloin. “That why your head’s all screwy?”

“Sorry,” Dean tugs his collar up over the bruise. A deep, suffering sigh steams out from John’s nostrils. He leans over the table and locks eyes with Dean.

“Are you planning on letting this affect the case, boy?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, sir.”

John doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks like he’s settling. Resigned. Like a jockey being told his best horse is tripping too hard.

“We’re leaving first thing. I want you to wear something clean. Some nice folks up there.”

He nods and looks at the menu to the side. “Y’want some pie?”

John’s eyes bounce between his son and the menu. “Get whatever you want. Don’t forget Sammy.”

Dean’s stomach curls.

He flushes half-digested apple a la mode down the men’s room before he leaves. John doesn’t notice a thing.

*

Sitting in the impala is nice for a change, even if it is in the passenger seat. Even if it does make him wince on a bumpy road. The wind rolls through his window, throwing soft scents of fir and cypress at him, airing him out. It feels like being stuck in limbo.

John grunts at him to grab leftovers and take them up to Sam. That was Dean’s job - John rarely ever went upstairs. Sam usually got upset if he did.

Dean takes his time plating the sausage and hash, pouring Sam a glass of milk, leaving the brownie in the bag.

“Don’t take too long braiding each other’s hair up there, alright?” John says as he sinks into his armchair in front of the TV, Jack hiding in his lap. “Got a duffel to pack.”

He swallows, glancing over at the half-made sandwiches he’d left about five hours ago.

He brushes his teeth before entering Sam’s room.

*

Sam’s door is pushed open with his shoulder and elbow, carefully balancing the milk and fork on his plate while his back flattens against it to slot it closed.

“Sammy?” He asks the room when he doesn’t see his brother anywhere. He puts the food and milk down on the dresser, eyes dancing around. The broken TV has been shoved into the corner, along with the rest of the broken things from last night. He must’ve sweeped too, because the floor looks a lot less messy. Furniture has been shoved back into their original places. The bed’s made. Books are back on the shelves. No sketches to be found. Dean circles the room for Sam, and prays to God he won’t find anymore blood stains.

His face hits the door with an ‘oomph’ when something collides into his back. Hands find his shoulders, flipping him around, and before he can even see Sam’s face his mouth is being invaded by Sam’s tongue. A strangled siren goes off in Dean’s throat. Sam’s hands dip under his shirts, palms splaying over his hips. He kisses Dean like he’s starved and it takes all of Dean’s strength to push him back with two frail hands on his collar. Air rasps into his lungs. Sam’s brow is furrowed.

“Dad’s here,” He explains, wetly. That doesn’t seem to phase Sam at all, however, and he ducks down for another kiss. Dean stops him with a thumb on his lip. “He’ll hear.”

Sam’s eyes dart all over Dean’s face - are you serious? Dean grins - he missed Sam’s micro expressions. He takes the extra seconds to check his scars. There are two thin scratches where Cassie’s nails ran through, and the rest are just parts of his scars rehealing. It seems like they’ll never heal fully.

He leans up on his toes and kisses him lightly. “I brought you something. You wanna see?”

Sam shakes his head. He swoops down and kisses Dean, a warm press of lips. Dean sighs through his nose. He opens up, lets Sammy taste spearmint toothpaste,and wraps his arms around his brother’s neck. There’s still a frenetic edge to his motions. Desperate. Dean feels the lock in the door pressing into his shoulderblades as Sam kisses him hard enough to make his head roll.

Sam’s hips press against his, and he feels a familiar firmness digging into his thigh. He looks down and Sam’s busting out of his pajamas - insistent. He grinds softly against Dean’s leg, biting his bruise in a way that makes Dean go ramrod straight. His heart kicks up.

“Y’want me to get you off, Sammy?” He mouths against Sam’s ear. A bitten-off groan hustles out of Sam’s wet throat. “Y’gonna be quick about it? Not gonna let dad know?”

Sam reaches down and grabs Dean’s ass, pushing Dean closer. Dean threads a hand into his hair, and then sends another one backwards to cover one of Sam’s paws. He takes it and guides it down the back of his loose Levi’s, down the back of his worn Haynes...down to the hot, tender spot there. Sam’s fingers instantly rub with heavy tips, trying to push in. Dean’s breath skitters.

“Gotta be good, Sammy.” He tries for firm, but it comes out unsteady. “Gotta be good for me tonight. You already got me sore -” He winces as Sam prods. “Tomorrow, you can do whatever you want. Okay?”

Sam doesn’t nod, but he obeys. He retracts his hands and pushes his cock against Dean’s - already half-mast. Looking down and seeing those kinds of things makes the apple pie feel like it was haunting his stomach. He watches his own hand reach down and wrap around Sammy, size him up in his palm before he just sends his fist into his boxers and start jacking him. He had to be quick - the last thing he needed was Sam getting riled up. Or John making noise.

Seeing his cock in the daylight felt surreal. It could barely fit in his hand, and the head would flare angrily whenever Dean went fast. Getting a whole pump done was laborous. He doesn’t know how he fit that whole thing in. No wonder he felt the way he did today.

Sam whines. Dean hisses at him to shush, and Sam bites his collar.

“Sam,” He grits in warning, and gets an irritated thrum at his neck in return. “C’mere.”

He pushes Sam back against the bed until he’s sitting on it. It creaks loudly, like it had PTSD. Dean falls to his knees less than smoothly and keeps pumping him, licking his lips. Sam lets out a deep groan when he swallows the head, letting his fist meet his mouth for wherever he can’t reach, and Dean slaps his thigh plaintively. Sam doesn’t care - he knots his fingers in Dean’s hand and pushes him down, makes him gag. His stomach is far too sensitive for this, but he lets Sam do it. It’s the fastest. Sam’s hands slide to his jaw to drag his mouth down. He’s  got wiry curls that Dean’s never noticed before, and his balls are a lot bigger than he thought. Or felt.

He loves making Dean take it - that much is apparent. Once he gets going, there’s no slowing him down, no matter how much Dean drools, or if salt trickles out of his eyes. He punches his cock down his throat like he could see it pushing him open, could see the girth filling him up. Leaking like a faucet on his tongue, all thick saltiness. He takes it out and bats Dean’s face, using him like a skin mag, getting precome on his lips and cheeks. Dean pants to find breath, sucking all he can down before Sam shoves back in and seesaws in and out of Dean’s face almost comically fast. Comical, if not for how much Dean was gagging on it.

Dean wants to reach down and adjust his jeans, but he can’t. He won’t let Sam see. Sam will become fixated if he sees how hard he is. Dean can take care of himself later. He just needs this now. Needs Sam to come. Moans low in his throat to give him that extra push. Sam drives in so hard his balls cram against Dean’s chin, nose buried in curls. His gags are smothered. He yanks Dean by the hair up and down his cock until his balls are slapping and Dean is digging his nails into his thighs desperately.

He looks up at Sam with bleary eyes. He’s not pulling out. He’s letting Dean’s cheeks hollow and his lips tighten and he’s not going to pull out. A low warble starts in Dean’s mouth, unsure. He doesn’t know if he’s - he can’t -

A harsh, tense grunt knocks out of Sam and suddenly he’s flooding Dean’s throat. He’s shooting off like a geyser. Dean’s face crumples tight and his eyelids clench as he feels it running down. Lifts up a hand to wrap around the base, wring out as much as he can - as if that would stave Sam off later. He milks Sam like a cow and swallows it all down.

John asks him what took him so long.

*

He leaves a pot of macaroni and cheese and bacon for Sam, along with prepackaged salad, cookies, two sodas and a fresh gallon of water. Sam knows he’s going to be gone long when he sees all of it covering his dresser, and makes it hard for him to leave.

The impala takes off down the road fifteen minutes later than planned. Dean watches Sam watch him from the window as they pull out, and his heart aches with the look he gets.

The town isn’t half bad though. It’s a cute place called Beaverton, filled with retirees and pet farms and little cut-outs of Forbes rankings in every bakery. John takes Dean to this elderly home named Happy Valley Homes, where a Fred and Diane Hoboken have just moved in after their house was burnt down by a thief with yellow eyes. Dean turns down the air conditioning for them in their room and they look at him like he’s their archangel. From then on, the interview is a walk in the park.

“The cops didn’t believe us, y’know.” Diane mutters.

“They said she was senile.” Fred adds.

“Senile,” She tuts.

“But why wouldn’t they? This town has one of the lowest crime rates in America.” He goes on, playing devil’s advocate.

“Which is exactly why this sort of thing wasn’t natural. If it was a real man, he would’ve left some clues, don’t you think?”

“And why wouldn’t he have taken anything with him?”

“And why us?”

Dean nods and jots it all down, like a true professional. When he looks up at them again, he’s got a true look of consternation in his eyes.

“Ma’am, tell me this. Was there anybody else in the house when it burnt down?”

Fred and Diane exchange broken gazes with each other. Dean’s hand tightens on his pen.

“Muffins.”

A pause. Dean nods, and write that down as well. Muffins.

“And you said his eyes were yellow, is that correct?”

Diane’s brow furrows. She looks at Fred, who shrugs, then back at Dean.

“Well, what color were they supposed to be?”

*

“I don’t know what you expected dad. This place is squeaky clean.” Dean squeezes ketchup on his burger until the bottle wheezes hoarsely. “I’m pretty sure they were just trying to pull something extra out of their insurance.”

John burns holes into his fries with his eyes. “We’ll try again tomorrow. The deputy will be ready with a report by then. For now, we’ve gotta go meet with Bobby. He’s got something.”

Dean shrugs and nods. He takes a bite of his burger. Say anything you want about Beaverton, but it has good food. He feels like he hasn’t eaten in days. His eyes scan the premises as he munches contently, surveying the children’s park across the street, the little shopette’s and boutiques, the pet store, the rug store, the art store with Kinkade paintings hanging in the window.

Sam would’ve loved to have seen those.

*

John puts Dean on a train back to the cabin at around nine o’clock that night, when they’re both too bone-tired to go anywhere. It takes him longer to get back than it would in the impala. It’s probably about midnight when he’s walking through the garden gate again, stumbling into the kitchen.

Sam’s most likely asleep by now. It’ll be a lot easier for him to wake up to his food already on the dresser than not.

He scrapes something together. Some hamburger helper, some microwave burritos with pepperjack thrown on top, some more water. If Sam knew how tired he was, he’d understand. He grabs some sour candies that he picked up in town while he’s at it, plates it all with aluminum foil and half-open eyelids.

His feet trip on the staircase twice, making it hard to stay quiet. The keys jangle noisily, so he finds the one he needs while he’s still on the second floor and holds it tight in his palm as he ascends. It slips into the locks with unforgiving sound. He turns it as slow as possible.

The room is dark - nearly pitch black. He knows it like the back of his hand, so he slips the food and water down on the dresser carefully, quietly, and turns back.

The door is already closed.

His front hits the bed with a jolted clang from the bed frame as Sam pushes against his backside, shocking a grunt out of him. He’s wide awake now. Sam’s lips attach to his neck with hot, frantic kisses, popping all over his skin like a dog happy to see him, and his hands are already on Dean’s pants, unbuttoning them hastily.  Dean tries to steady himself on the bed and slow him down at the same time - unsuccessfully.

“Goddamn it Sam,” He hisses. “I’m sorry I’m late, okay? Just -” Sam slides a hand into his boxers and starts pumping him. Dean’s words drone out into a moan. “Fucking shit, Sam.”

Sam groans into his neck. His knees shuffle forward on the mattress, pushing Dean up to the headboard, and it’s all Dean can do to just bend over and let Sam have him. He shoves Dean’s jeans down, tearing them off his legs, then hauls Dean up so he can send all the buttons of his shirt flying with one quick yank of his hands. Throws it away. Dean starts panting. Sam kisses down Dean’s neck to his shoulder, scraping the ball of it with his teeth. One hand comes up and pinches his nipple, making him wince, and the other hand goes back down to jack Dean quick and hard. His head falls back against Sam’s shoulder, feeling a tongue on his pulse.

“Slow,” He tries, voice already weak. “Easy.”

Sam nips his cheek in response and shoves him back down. His head meets the pillow with another grunt. Sam doesn’t seem open to suggestion tonight. He should’ve insisted on leaving John earlier in the day, maybe taken an earlier train. Maybe it would’ve been easier. But no - now he’s getting himself nothing but fucked.

He spreads himself out, reaching for the lube but Sam’s already on it. He can hear it uncapping behind him - Sam must’ve already had it. Fucker.

“Easy,” Dean reminds him - and his pitch rises when he feels the wet head of Sam’s cock slicking up the way, dragging up and down his hole, rutting between his cheeks. He clenches instinctively. “Just relax, Sam.”

An unstable sound rolls out from Sam. He presses in - Dean grips his pillow tightly - and opens him up with one long, slow thrust.

Dean’s voice shoots up. His hand slaps against the headboard as Sam wraps his hands around his waist, fingers digging in, not at all worried about the ragged, shaking yelps Dean blurts out. He thrusts in and lets it burn as he picks up his favorite jack-knife rhythm, balls smacking quick and hard. Dean’s thighs are wracked with trembles. His head hangs low as Sam fucks into him fast, like he’s been holding it for hours. It feels like there’s an arm inside of him.

“Fuck,” His voice hitches, jolted by the punch of Sam’s body. “Sammy - uh, fuck.”

Sam drills him down until he’s boneless, splayed down on the mattress. He can feel his brother’s sweaty chest plaster against his back and a hand come back up to his nipple, pinching it mercilessly. He sobs - a warble caught in his throat. His eyes clenched, brow twisted in a desperate sort of pain. He doesn’t have to reach down to know he’s rock hard. Instead, he sends a hand back to pull Sam in by the hip - push him in deeper. If this is what Sam wants, he can have it. He can fuck him until he can’t walk anymore. He doesn’t care.

“Y-Yeah,” He hisses, anger flickering there. “C’mon Sammy, fuck me. Y’like that? Yeah?”

Sam’s teeth dig into his nape, rumbling like a silverback. Dean presses back against his thrusts, hears his balls slap against his ass, globes shaking against Sam’s hips, and doesn’t smother his moan in his pillow when it curls out of him.

“Is this how it is now? This how you want it? Huh?” Dean pants, wetly. “Want me to be your bitch now, Sammy? Uhn - god.”

Sam groans loud. He shoves his hips into Dean so hard the bed frame snaps against the wall. Dean shoves his pillow against the headboard. An arm swoops down around his throat and holds him still as Sam’s hips become wild and frenetic, his breath pounding against Dean’s ear. His ass burns. He can feel the lube thinning already, but he won’t make Sam stop. He doesn’t want him to. His cock is leaking against the sheets.

His words hike up into sharp cries as Sam rushes. He pulls out nearly all the way and slams back in, possessed, then leans up to grab Dean’s hips and drill. Dean’s head hangs, moaning. Sam works him like a doll. He’s limp everywhere except his heavy, hanging cock. His hand can barely move to wrap around it, but when it does, he lets out a deep, satisfied groan.

It feels good. Sam feels good.

“Sammy,” He hiccups, looking back into the darkness. He can see the shadow of Sam’s hair tossing around. “Wanna feel it. C’mon.”

Sam hisses behind him. He says it louder. “Come inside me, do it. Come in me like a bitch.”

His voice breaks the air in a cry as Sam’s teeth sink into his neck in a cold snap. His hips lock against Dean’s ass, slow-pounding, and that’s when Dean feels the warm pulses jetting into him. Hot wetness surges into him, fills him up. Dean pulls him in hard by the hip and moans, clenching up, wringing it out. Sam lets out a torn sound and pulls out - more shoots out onto his ass, coats it in white stripes. Dean’s fist is slapping at his own cock, fast like a sophomore.

After a moment, Sam’s hand slides over his and helps.

“Dean,” Sam whispers into his ear - gravelly and small, just like how he sounds in his dreams - and Dean busts all over the sheets.

*

A mourning dove outside Sam’s window wakes him up.

The sun is low in the sky, meaning he’s overslept. Funnily, he doesn’t remember falling asleep at all. He untangles himself from the blankets and rolls over, piecing things together.

Sam’s sitting in his desk chair, facing him, in nothing but boxers.

He’s got a sketch in his hand.

Dean decides instantly that he’s not going to look at it this time. Instead, he gives Sam a once-over. His hair is greasy and unwashed, fading bruise on his neck, stubble on his chin. He probably hasn’t brushed his teeth yet. Dean needs to, too. He scrubs a hand down his face and rubs at his jaw. His throat feels sore. All of him feels sore.

“You need a shower.” He rasps.

Sam’s eyes widen.

*

He’s usually good about showers. He hasn’t tried anything since he was a teenager. At some point, it became really easy to lead Sam from the bedroom to the master bathroom of wherever they were staying, depending on where it was. Sometimes, if it was on the first floor, Sam just had to try something.

But he’s not trying anything today. He’s letting Dean lock the bathroom door behind him, letting Dean spread the barbasol on his face, letting Dean rinse him and peel off his boxers. Letting Dean back him into the hot spray. He grabs Dean’s hand and pulls. Dean figures, what the hell. It’s not like they’re breaking ground. Their boxers lie like scraps on the tile as he steps in.

“Gonna need more soap,” He grunts as he scrubs Sam down. His limbs feel endless - he was like a tower to Dean. “When the hell did you get so tall?”

Sam flicks soap at him. “Quit it.” He mumbles. Sam does it again. Dean looks up from where he’s scrubbing Sam’s side and gets a loofah swipe across the chin, giving him a beard. He glares at Sam - but Sam’s smiling. Smiling. His heart sings.

“Okay,” Dean swipes Sam’s mouth with it. “How about that, Mr. Claus?”

Sam blows the foam off of his lips and shakes his head. Dean laughs.

“C’mere,” He takes down the shower head and rains it down on Sam’s face. “How you like me now? Huh?”

He watches his brother open his mouth to the spray, gathering a mouthful and spitting it out. It’s gross, but Dean’s not grossed out. He runs the water down Sam’s soaped up body and watches it clear off smooth, untouched skin, then goes back up to his face to run off leftover bubbles. Sam’s eyes are on him, heavy. Dean strokes his three scars with his thumb, feeling the rise of them against his fingerprint. Feeling the dip of Sam’s eye. Sam always had beautiful eyes - like the rest of him. Brown, green speckles.

“Hey,” He smiles. “Killer.”

Something flickers across Sam’s face at the compliment, and he looks down at their bare feet. Their toes are touching. Dean’s heart breaks a little bit more.  

“Hey -” He leans up and kisses Sam’s jaw. “I’m talking to you. Sammy.”

He doesn’t get a response from that - knows he won’t get a response - so he kisses Sam’s cheek. Kisses his left scar. Kisses his nose, where it ends. Kisses his right scars - one, two, three. His eye. His cheek, again. His lips. He presses his body up against Sam. His kiss is surging.

“Sammy,” He breathes, hands tickling his sides. Sam’s looking at him now, a sort of glazed, distant fog to them. He takes the shower head from Dean and hesitates before running it over Dean’s chin, washing away the beard.

...Then he trails up to Dean’s face, and runs water on his already clean cheeks.

Dean can’t stand it. Sam’s camping out in fog and trees and blank pages but Dean’s already here, he’s already filled up the page. And if Sam wanted him to fill up every page he had in his sketchbook, he’d let him have it. He’d let him have anything. Dean’s already got it. Dean’s already got everything he’ll ever need.

Dean’s got everything he’ll ever need for himself, too.

“What do you want, Sam?” He holds Sam’s face in his hands. “Just tell me.”

Sam lowers the shower head.

He looks out the window.

 

  
  
  



End file.
